


Black Forest

by bigblackdog, RuinsPlume



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, Brief mention of abuse at the Dursleys’, Cross-Generation Relationship, Healing Trauma Through Sex, M/M, Mild Praise Kink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - M/M/M, Wolfstarry, chosen families, light ageplay, mild sub drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23046283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblackdog/pseuds/bigblackdog, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinsPlume/pseuds/RuinsPlume
Summary: In which Harry has a nightmare (or says he does), Remus wants no part in this (until he does), and Sirius enjoys being the most functional person in the room (for once).
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin/Harry Potter
Comments: 67
Kudos: 537
Collections: Bottom!Harry, HP Kinkfest 2020, Harry Potter, Poly fics





	Black Forest

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the Mods--for this wonderful fest and for their patience.

The war’s been over for a year now, but Harry still gets nightmares. Even now, waking up under half a dozen blankets on Remus and Sirius’s oversized couch. They transfigured the couch especially for him after he showed up on their doorstep last month. Sometimes during nightmares he’s sweating so badly he throws all the blankets off. Other times he wakes so frightened that he hides beneath the blankets the way he used to on Privet Drive when he still slept in the cupboard under the stairs. 

“I’ve been out of Azkaban for six years, and it still wakes me up,” Sirius said when Harry had been discovered shouting in the night, so loudly that both Remus and Sirius had appeared in the doorway with their wands drawn, Sirius wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, his chest decorated with tattoos and Remus apparently wearing nothing at all, for he was clutching a pillow over his groin. 

That’s not exactly comforting, Padfoot, Remus had said, but Harry had found it so, because the pain in Sirius’s life seems better than the pain in Harry’s, more glamorous and grown up and heroic. Harry knows that other people might say the same thing about him, but if they do they’re wrong. There’s nothing glamorous or heroic about waking up so scared you can’t even get up to go down the hall to the loo, or into the kitchen for a drink of water. At times like those, all Harry can do is hunch under his blankets, curling into the smallest ball possible, one hand in his pants and the other against his chest, holding himself and trying to get his heart to calm down. 

That’s what he’s doing right now, but he can't get his heart to calm down, and tonight it's not from the nightmares. A banging had woken him and Harry fought down his first waking thoughts—visions of crumbling castle walls and shattteringly loud hexes, of tinkling glass and shelf after shelf hitting the ground until he noticed the banging hadn't stopped with his dreams and— his face warming— he realized there was a rhythm, and Christ, he cannot imagine Sirius and Remus having sex. 

Only that's unmistakably Sirius, luxuriating in a low groan. 

Does that mean it’s Remus doing something to Sirius? A memory of Ginny flashes through Harry’s mind, of sounds she used to make, but he bats it away again. It’s over, it was over at the end of sixth year, and this past year was only Harry trying and failing to make it not be over, and each time he tried and failed they both blamed it on the war. 

Even the groaning has rhythm! Harry’s face flushes hot at the sound of Sirius’s voice, the low, guttural tempo in time with the thumping. Harry should take his hand off his cock and put both hands over his ears, or tiptoe down the hall and hide in the bathroom with the water running until they’re finished. But it’s easier to stay where he is, letting the racing of his heart shift from near-panic at images of the Hogwarts towers collapsing in flames to the enticing heat of these new images rising unbidden in his mind; Sirius spread out beneath Remus, and Remus’s fingers, or maybe it’s Remus’s—mouth—around Sirius’s— or—or—inside him, do they do that, or is it Sirius on his knees and Remus’s fingers in Sirius’s hair and Sirius’s mouth taking Remus’s—

With a sharp gasp, Harry comes in his hand, inside his pajama pants, his heart still pounding. In the bedroom down the hall, Sirius’s moans deepen, flatten into grunts, and then, sudden as a shot, Remus’s voice: “Ahhh _fuck—_ ” 

And a long shuddering breath from Sirius that sounds almost like tears. But then he’s laughing, and Remus is laughing too, just for a second, low and deep and warm. Sirius says something soft and muffled that Harry can’t hear and then the room is silent. 

Harry waits until he thinks they've fallen asleep. He tries to convince himself it's safe to get up and wash himself off now, that it's not suspicious, that they won't know he was listening to them fuck because people get up and go to the bathroom in the night all the time and—and their bedroom door opens and Remus walks out, wearing only some loose boxers Harry's sure he'd never walk around in if he thought Harry was awake. Harry hears the sound of the tap, a glass on the counter, the tap again. Quiet footsteps, like he's standing in the doorway of the kitchen looking at Harry and Harry can't stop himself from opening his eyes to see.

"Nightmare?" Remus asks, as if that's the only possible reason Harry is lying awake, heart racing, cheeks flushed. 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see Remus' face when he nods his head, lying to him. Remus walks across the room, brushing Harry's hair off his sweaty forehead and Harry died and came back again to save everyone so is it so much to ask that he die and come back to save himself the mortification of this moment? 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Remus asks.

Harry swears he can smell sex, sweat and come, probably both of theirs together. He shakes his head, mumbling out an "M'alright." 

Remus looks at him a long moment, then brushes his fingers over Harry's hair again. "Okay. Let us know if you need anything." 

He's never hated how caring Remus is until this moment. 

"Finally," Sirius says, just before the bedroom door shuts once more, and the scent of sex and their words are lost to Harry, lying here on the couch in cold sticky pants. 

_Finally?_

Yes, because Harry had delayed Remus. Had gotten in the way. 

Harry holds absolutely still, torn between wanting to run down the hall to the bathroom and wash himself off and wanting to stay where he is because what if Remus hears Harry walking around and comes out to check on him, which will take him away from Sirius yet again. 

_Finally._ Harry can’t stop hearing the sound of the word in his head, the way Sirius said it. Maybe Sirius and Remus are finally getting tired of having Harry camping out in their living room every night. 

~o~

Harry wakes to bright gray morning light filtering through the curtains, warm beneath his pile of blankets, and a cold feeling of dread in his stomach that confuses his sleep-thick brain. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, checks his surroundings. He’s warm, he’s here on his couch—well, Sirius and Remus’s couch, and—oh. 

The front panel of his pajama pants is stiff. Harry pulls the blankets over his head, the memory of last night crawling across his skin like insects. The sounds of their sex. Remus in the moonlight, brushing Harry’s sweaty hair off his face while Harry’s hand was down his pants, covered with cooling spunk. 

That _finally_. 

From Sirius.

Right, then. It’s happened, finally. He kicks off his pajama pants under the covers, uses his feet to work them beneath the sofa cushion—he’ll recover them later— and races on tiptoe to the cupboard opposite the bathroom where he keeps his clothes. Tiptoes into the bathroom, hurries through a wash, and is at the stove cracking eggs into a bowl as silently as he knows how.

Even with the butter popping in the pan and the soft clink of scrambling eggs Harry can hear the sounds of them waking. Sirius's exaggerated groans as he stretches. Harry can imagine him twisting this way and that, tattoos twisting with him, footsteps shuffling into the loo—that’s probably Remus, as Sirius likes a lie-in. Harry slots slices of bread into the toaster, sets the water to boil for tea, the motions coming to him almost naturally, tending the eggs, checking the toast, tea bags waiting in their cups.

Remus shuffles in, bleary eyed and frowning, and Harry freezes. But Remus just says, "Morning, Harry," and stands at the counter looking at the tea cups and frying pan like he's confused by them. "What's all this then?"

"Just—breakfast. Water will be ready soon."

"What? Oh, thank you. Right, tea," Remus says, almost to himself, getting the milk out of the fridge.

"Bring it in here!" Sirius calls from the bedroom. 

"Don't be lazy," Remus says. "Get your arse out of bed."

"Twelve years sleeping on a cold stone floor and you won't let me have this one creature comfort?"

"How long must we endure the Azkaban routine?"

It's such a seamless little exchange, no loose threads for Harry to grab ahold of and weave himself in, so he just loads everything onto a tray and follows Remus back to their little bedroom, as they tickle and prod at each other's darkest places, nothing concealed between them.

“A full breakfast in bed?” Sirius raises his eyebrows and sits up in bed, the blankets pooling around his waist. He rubs his face, threading his fingers through his dark hair to push it back from his eyes, and grins at Remus. “For a middle-aged werewolf, your egg-scrambling charms are awfully speedy. Been taking remedial magic cooking classes while I was behind the Veil?”

“Harry made breakfast,” Remus says, giving Sirius an affectionate swat on his blanketed thigh and settling himself on the side of the bed. 

“Did he?” Sirius looks at Harry with interest. “I suppose Molly taught you to cook? Come on, sit down, let’s have at it.” 

Harry sets the tray on the rumpled bed covers between Sirius and Remus, and then, so as not to disobey, he sits down too. He hasn’t made an egg for himself, but neither Remus nor Sirius seem to notice.

“Delicious,” Sirius pronounces, and then, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with the napkin Harry remembered to put on the tray, “Perhaps we’ll have to keep him around, eh, Moony?” 

“Can you do toad in the hole?” Remus asks, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips, but all of a sudden Harry can’t remember what toad in the hole is, because they’re debating whether he should be kept around or not. But look, Remus is smiling, they’re just having a laugh with him, that must be it. But he’s not sure, is he, he can’t think; all he can think is that he ought to get started on the breakfast dishes before anyone yells at him about it. 

"Toad in the hole?” Sirius wrinkles his nose. “No, Remus, _scrambled_. What am I going to do with you?"

Their conversation comes to him as if far away— he'll get started on the dishes and then maybe he'll do a load of laundry, all the sheets, so they won't ever find out Harry came in his pants last night listening to them but— oh god, will they suspect he heard if he offers to wash their sheets? 

"Harry?"

Harry looks up from the rumpled sheets where they'd fucked last night, where their hands are resting gently together in a slanted beam of sunlight. "Sorry, what?"

"Did you not sleep well last night?" Sirius asks, just as Remus says, "I was saying I'm going to be away a few days."

"Oh, all right," Harry says, but his pulse is starting to race again.

"— spend a few days with Tonks and Teddy."

Remus’s family. "Right." Remus has an odd look on his face and Harry needs to get out of this room, their bedroom. "Yeah, uh, tell them I say hi," he says, feet carrying him to the door. 

~o~

He’s not going to be a burden. To anyone, ever again. He’s not going to give Sirius any reason to say _finally_ about Harry getting out of the way. Harry stays out all day and most of the evening, arriving back from Ron’s at half eleven. The cottage is silent, but light from one of the back rooms leaks weakly through the curtains on the front windows. Harry considers killing an hour in a pub, or just walking around through Hampstead, but he doesn’t want to wake Sirius by coming in too late. Better to chance it now. 

Harry closes the door as quietly as he can, which is pretty quiet for a boy who grew up in a cupboard, but Sirius must hear something because he stalks out of the kitchen and stands in the middle of the tiny hallway, drying his hands on a kitchen towel and blocking Harry's way. The light from the kitchen slants across his frowning face. He looks narked and it must be Harry's fault. Last night or— he ran out of the house so fast today he forgot to do the dishes from breakfast— shite. He tries not to wince. 

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Sirius growls. 

Harry swallows, his eyes skating around the room. The sofa has been stripped of its blankets and is covered instead with at least a dozen vinyl records, half of them out of their sleeves. On the coffee table sits a bottle of Ogden’s and a glass. 

“I was starting to think you’d gone off with Moony. It’s bad enough he leaves for the week-end." Sirius scrubs his hand over his face. "Come on then. Don't stand in the door. Come have a drink with me. You're old enough. Or were you leaving again?"

Harry shakes his head, following Sirius into the living room, where he's busying himself with the record player. 

"Go on," he says, back still turned, like now he can't even look at Harry. "Get yourself a glass." 

Harry doesn’t move. He knows he should say something, do something to put this right, but his mind feels as if it’s been hit with an _Impedimenta_ , his thoughts moving as if through a vat of cooling toffee. 

“I didn’t go with Remus,” he manages. “I was at Ron’s. I could—if you’d rather—” Harry shakes himself, trying to dislodge the sludge of panic from his body. 

“I’d rather you sat your arse down and kept me company,” Sirius says, shoving a few records aside and plunking himself down on the sofa. I hate being by myself at night. Or during the day, for that matter. I did my alone time—for twelve years, thank you very much. Nina Simone or Sid Vicious?” He flicks his wand at the scattered albums, which obediently shuffle themselves into a neat pile on the far end of the sofa. Harry sits down beside Sirius. 

“Whatever you’d like.” 

He pours himself a drink while Sirius sends a record sailing across the room to the turntable under the window. Something low and mournful in the woman’s voice, in the instrumentation behind her. The first sip of Ogden’s clears his mind a little, like the sun’s heat burning off fog. Harry remembers the couch has none of his blankets because he cleared them away himself, stacking them neatly folded in the hall cupboard before leaving for the day. 

“That’s better,” Sirius says, shooting Harry an appreciative look.

The heat of whiskey, the golden circle of lamplight, Sirius' low voice humming here and there. Harry tucks his feet up underneath him, taking small sips of warmth and wonders what it would've been like to always have this—his godfather, his rough edged love thrumming through the room. Would Sirius have poured him his first glass of firewhiskey? Propped him up after his first night at the pubs? His warm arms holding Harry up, not steady but ever strong. Harry sets his glass down on the coffee table abruptly, flushed from imagining his godfather holding him. 

If he’d grown up with Sirius, when he was small Sirius might have lifted him high into the air, caught him in his arms, set Harry on his shoulders, Harry’s legs dangling down over Sirius’s chest, heels thumping against Sirius’s ribcage as Sirius’s strong hands held him fast by his thighs—

“All right,” Sirius says, cutting into Harry’s fantasy so suddenly Harry feels himself blush internally, as if the Ogden’s in his belly were being held over a gas ring until it ignited. “What’s up?”

“How d’you mean?” The woman on the record is holding a note until it bends in on itself, doubling over, dropping down low. If Harry could he would get on his knees on the floor and beg—for what he’s not certain. 

“You’ve been acting bloody peculiar all week. Tiptoeing around, spacing out."

“I don’t sleep well,” Harry says, which is true enough, and something he knows Sirius will understand without question. “I don’t mean to complain—”

“You're not complaining. I _asked._ ” Sirius throws his arm around Harry’s shoulder, pulling him sideways on the sofa until Harry’s head comes to rest on Sirius’s shoulder. “That makes two of us, mate. I reckon we could start a sleep disturbance club, all meetings to be held at 3 a.m. sharp. Trade you an Azkaban bad dream for a Voldemort nightmare, what do you say?” 

He knows he should laugh, or at least smile, but he can’t seem to find it in him. All he wants to do is stay perfectly still just like this, the wrinkled sateen of Sirius’s old shirt soft against his cheek. “What do you do,” he asks without moving his head, “when your nightmares get really bad?”

“Wake up Remus. Transform into Padfoot. Sometimes both, if it comes to that. I always sleep as Padfoot when Remus is gone and I'm alone." He looks down at Harry leaning against him, cocking his head to one side in a manner that so much resembles Padfoot that Harry feels a low burble of happiness deep in his stomach, rising up in him until he smiles and almost laughs. “You could wake me up,” Sirius continues. “Any time, Harry. You know that, right?”

"Okay," Harry says. He imagines himself getting up from one of his nightmares, sweat-drenched sleep shirt and all, and climbing into Sirius's bed. Maybe Sirius would put his arm around him like he is right now. Harry shifts a little closer, lets himself lean into the line of Sirius's body. There's a line here that he's toeing, he knows it, but he could no sooner stop than he could glimpse the snitch and stay put. He tucks his head underneath Sirius's chin, heart racing and trying to keep his breathing steady. Sirius lifts his arm a bit and resettles and Harry can breathe again. The woman on the record hums, a soft lulling note; he looks at the worn collar of Sirius's shirt, the gnarled plants on the windowsill, the record spinning, eyes drooping. 

When Harry wakes, the room is still pitch black. He’s warm and the heartbeat in his ears is soft and steady. His cheek rough against hair, warmth, the rise and fall of breath. His head is mashed up against Padfoot’s side, he realizes, the dog half-curled around his upper body, Padfoot’s head resting heavily on his shoulder. There’s a blanket over Harry’s legs, just one blanket, but he isn’t cold. He’s beautifully warm with Padfoot squeezed beside him on the couch. And it’s the easiest thing in the world to drop back into sleep, his pulse easy and slow as the deep sigh of Padfoot in his sleep, huffing out a soft breath as he shifts against Harry’s body, warm and so close there’s no room for any fear, any nightmares, nothing but the comfort of sleeping like a puppy curled beside the great dog. 

~o~

The room is barely lit when Padfoot stretches his long doggy legs, the rasp of his toenails against one of Harry’s legs waking him. The dog’s body is coat-warm against his, and Harry instinctively buries his hands under Padfoot’s side. It’s like he’s wearing a coat, a coat that keeps out the rain and sleet on Privet Drive, he’s warm and loved and the coat fits him perfectly. Harry shivers in the luxury of the feeling. He doesn’t want for anything. A coat with deep, deep pockets. Padfoot sighs beside him and Harry holds himself, sleepy sparks of pleasure from his morning erection—or dream erection, maybe, he was dreaming something good, what was it?—eddying over the surface of his skin. 

But now Padfoot is stirring beside him, and Harry yanks his hand away from his crotch just as Padfoot clambers down from the sofa and then, silhouetted in the early light between the sofa and the window, suddenly shimmers and there's Sirius, in his worn flannel pajama pants, low on his hips, tee shirt rucked up as he scratches idly at his stomach so that Harry can see two little dimples just above the curve of his godfather's arse. What would it feel like, his hands on that arse, soft flannel and soft muscle underneath. There's not much about Sirius that's soft, with all his jagged black tattoos, sinewy arms, and sharp collarbones. His arse looks soft though, Harry thinks. Harry can picture Remus cupping those two soft mounds, arms wrapped around him like that time Harry caught them kissing in the kitchen. Remus— Harry squirms a little on the couch. He's not supposed to think of his godfather like that, or Remus. They're allowed to think about each other like that, and Harry's not supposed to lie on the bed they're letting him crash on, palming his dick and thinking about them kissing. 

Sirius stretches and goes quietly into the bathroom and a moment later Harry hears him pissing. Which means Sirius has got his hand wrapped around himself, and Harry tightens his grip on himself, and Sirius is still pissing, and now Harry’s really wanking, and fuck, Sirius is coming back through the door, of course he wasn’t going to flush the toilet and wake harry up. Harry hastily rolls over, trying to make it look like he’s still asleep, and buries his flushed face in the sofa cushions. 

Sirius sits down on the sofa, down on the far end by Harry’s feet. Harry holds his breath. Is he going to lie down now as Sirius? Is he going to change back to Padfoot and then lie down? 

Harry waits. He has to start breathing again. Nothing happens. He breathes as quietly as he can into the cushions. Nothing. He counts to a hundred and then, curiosity getting the better of him, he makes a show—probably too much of a show—waking up, rolling over and opening his eyes so he can see what Sirius is doing. 

Sirius is gazing down at Harry. 

Harry throws one arm over his face, his heart thumping crazily in his chest. Sirius was looking at him! Did Sirius know what Harry had just been doing? Did he guess? 

“Good morning,” Sirius says, a hint of something in his voice. Is he laughing at Harry? Harry raises his arm just enough to open one eye and peek through the crook of his elbow. Sirius is smiling, but he doesn’t have his teasing face on. He just looks… fond. 

“What time is it?” Harry asks, trying to sound groggy. 

Sirius glances through the kitchen doorway. “Half seven. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I was awake.” But that sounds creepy, so he amends, “I mean, I just woke up. Just now, I mean, but you didn’t wake me.”

Sirius nods. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Harry says truthfully, relieved at being able to say something truthful for a change. “Really well. Thanks.” 

“No nightmares?” 

"No nightmares," Harry repeats, thinking about whatever almost-wet-dream he woke up to.

"Well good. Any nightmares, you just come sleep in Padfoot's bed, alright?" Sirius affectionately pats Harry's ankle as he stands up. "I'm starving. Did you know I do a pretty good fry up?"

~o~

It's well past the time of night when the little cottage creaks and settles into the cold and well into the time of night that is all dark and all silent, in the way only a country place can be, and Harry is lying awake staring at the ceiling, knowing full well he hasn't had a nightmare. What's keeping him awake are a different sort of persistent visions. Padfoot's soft fur and snuffles are beyond the closed bedroom door. Harry knows well now, what Padfoot sounds like snuffling through a deep sleep. He’s in there all alone; Remus is still with Tonks and Teddy. 

Harry had woken from a nightmare the night before and had hardly hesitated before fleeing into Sirius and Remus's bedroom where Padfoot lay on top of the covers, his hulking mass a shelter in the storm. Harry had curled up against the dog and dropped off almost immediately, the presence of Padfoot’s heat and breath so visceral it was impossible to stay caught up in the disembodied nightmare world. 

But there’s no nightmare tonight. Just Harry, not so small and scared but still aching for something—

He turns the knob, pushes open the door and tiptoes across the floor. There’s no moon—Remus is at his strongest for traveling at this time of the month—and the room is dark enough that Harry’s almost reached the bed before he realizes it’s not Padfoot on top of the covers, but Sirius underneath them. Harry stands there for a moment, undecided, and takes a step backward. The floorboard creaks and Sirius sits bolt upright. 

“It’s only me—shit, I’m sorry, Sirius,” Harry stammers. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Another nightmare?” Sirius’s voice is rough with sleep but gentle even so. 

“Yeah, a nightmare, but I mean, I—it’s—”

Can Sirius tell he’s lying? Harry’s grateful the room is so dark. 

“Come on then,” Sirius says, and throwing back the covers, he scoots over in the bed.

“You’re not Padfoot,” Harry says stupidly. 

“I’m not alone, am I?” Sirius answers.

It’s what Harry wanted, though he hadn’t dared hope for it, it’s what he’d been imagining: sliding into bed beside Sirius, into the spot where Remus sleeps. The sheets are warm where Sirius was lying, the smell of them so different from Padfoot, that pleasant mix of laundry soap and sweat, the smell of Sirius's hair lingers on the pillow and Harry snuggles into it, shifting until his nose is just a breath away from Sirius's shoulder, until he can feel the warmth of Sirius's body radiating on his lips and eyelids. This is where Remus sleeps, right here. This is where Remus and Sirius touch each other, right here in this bed, Remus’s hands or mouth or cock doing things to Sirius that make Sirius moan the way Harry heard the other night. Harry shifts a little, trying to get as close to Sirius as he can without actually touching him, and moving his other hand down to cover his half-hard cock so he doesn’t accidentally knock it into Sirius’s leg because that would be really, really awkward.

Unless it wasn’t—unless Sirius felt the press of Harry’s wanting and didn’t pull away from it. Didn’t shout _what the hell are you doing, what’s wrong with you_. What if Sirius moved his hands very slowly so as not to startle Harry and slid them around Harry’s thighs and cupped his arse? What if Sirius whispered in his ear that it was all right, that he understood?

What if Sirius kept one hand on Harry’s arse and slid the other between his legs, if he wrapped his long fingers around Harry’s dick, just like Harry’s got his own hand around himself, what if it was Sirius’s hand, what if Sirius said, _Let me help you, Harry. Let me take care of you._

Harry rolls over too fast, well away from Sirius, hoping the trembling in his body isn’t transmitting through the mattress. It’s a long time before his heart slows enough that he can unclench his thighs and his fingers, breathe deeply and begin the slow descent into sleep. 

~o~

Waking up next to Sirius, waking up with a hard-on next to Sirius, waking up with a hard-on next to Sirius because Remus is home and standing in the doorway, bag dropped at his feet and expression too mild, too pleasant, the same expression Harry remembers from the night Remus lied to Snape's face about the Marauder's Map, is a singularly mortifying experience. Harry sits up in bed, careful to bunch the covers over his lap, head hung, unable to look at Remus directly, as Remus looks at Sirius, that expression promising the kind of dressing down only Remus can deliver, like he's asking for a bit of milk for his tea, if you don't mind. 

"Morning, Remus," Sirius says, with a too forceful kind of brightness.

"Good morning, Harry," Remus says, and Harry doesn't think he's imagining the slight emphasis on his name, because he shouldn't be here and they all know it. 

"I had a nightmare," Harry blurts out. Shite, now he sounds too defensive. He feels like such a child, caught out. Remus will know. 

"I'm going to make some tea," Remus says, with a last look at Sirius before turning on his heel. 

Sirius scrambles out of bed, striding quickly after Remus, closing the door to the bedroom with a, "Just a tick, Harry."

Harry collapses back on the bed, feeling on the verge of tears. He was so desperate for a bloody snuggle and now they're out there, having a row and it's all Harry's fault, just couldn't control himself, could he? Will Remus want Harry to leave? 

~o~

There's nowhere to hide in Sirius and Remus's cottage. Harry hasn’t got a bedroom, he can't hide under the blankets on the couch they all share, or the bed they all decidedly do not share. Sirius said it was nothing, not to worry about it, just to come have breakfast, but Harry's not stupid. Remus was entirely too pleasant and Sirius too quiet and they all tried not to make eye contact while their breakfasts got cold until Sirius said he'd been planning to go to Grimmauld for a while now, to clean out and auction everything off to donate it to Mrs. Figg, of all people, for a cat sanctuary, and Sirius' forced cheerfulness about dozens of cats peeing on his ancestral home didn't raise the mood, either. 

Harry escaped their miserable breakfast when Sirius got up to pack his bag and Remus followed after to their bedroom, conspicuously shutting the door behind him. Harry's sure they're not having sex this time. They're talking about him. About what to do with him now he's messed everything up. 

He curls over his knees on the back stoop, watching mourning doves bob here and there on the fence. He doesn't want to go. It doesn't feel like his home, exactly, but Harry has something here he can't let go of, something with Remus and Sirius and watching them love each other, the teasing way Remus pinches Sirius in the side when he gets grandiose, and Sirius always bringing Remus cups of tea, all day long, always with a kiss. Harry can't stand the thought of not getting to watch all the ways they've settled in each other. He can't let go of the ache he feels wanting some small part of it. 

Sirius leaves with only a called out goodbye, like he can't come near Harry. Harry stands up from the stoop at the quick whoosh of the floo and goes inside. Remus is sitting at the kitchen table, reading glasses on, no tea by his elbow. He fills the kettle without asking, gets Remus's mug from the drying rack, the tea leaves, the milk. He stares down at the hob, not looking at Remus as he fills the mug, sets it by his elbow (no kiss) and slips out of the kitchen, all jittery energy, to find the vacuum cleaner. There's nowhere to hide, so Harry will just have to be useful. 

~o~

The sound of Harry's chair scooting across the floor is loud in the quiet little kitchen. Harry picks up his plate and glass and then Remus's plate and glass too. Remus frowns, so Harry holds everything in the crook of his arm to pick up their forks and knives and hurries over to the sink. 

"You don't—" Remus says, and cuts himself off. He tries again, loud over the sound of the running water. "That's enough, Harry. Just leave it." 

Harry slowly shuts off the faucet, staring down at a mound of bubbles in a pot. His heartbeat is loud in his ears and all he can think is that he needs to wash this pot. He'll wash the pot and then the dinner dishes, and then wipe the stove because Aunt Petunia hates when— Harry takes a deep breath. He'll just wipe the stove, that's all. 

"It's fine. I— I want to," Harry says, talking to the bubbles. 

"You haven't done anything wrong," Remus says. He sounds angry and Harry feels small and confused. He can't do anything right. Remus sighs and gets up from the table and Harry picks up the sponge, attacking the dried ring of food around the rim of the pot. 

Remus spends the rest of the night in the bedroom and Harry wipes down the stove, then the sink and the cabinets, and the fridge and trash can, quietly, so he doesn't disturb Remus. It's late when he crawls under the covers on the couch, hoping he's exhausted enough to just sleep. 

~o~

_Stop. Stop it, I say. STOP! What the bloody hell is wrong with you, boy? What do you mean, waking up the entire house?_

He can’t really see because he’s crying too hard, his tears making Uncle Vernon’s face a monstrous, wavering shadow in the cupboard door. The shadow reaches for him and he only cries harder. There’s a roaring sound in his ears that he recognizes is coming from his mouth.

He’s being shaken—

_Selfish. Such a selfish, selfish boy._

Aunt Petunia’s words like the needle of a doctor’s vaccination, it’s not supposed to hurt but it does, jabbing deep into his flesh and he can’t make it stop—

“Harry. Harry.”

_Stop that ridiculous wailing this instant! Or would you rather spend the night on the stoop?_

_Put him out there, Vernon. Teach him a lesson—_

He’s being shaken so hard—

“You’re having a nightmare, Harry. I need you to wake up.”

It’s dark, he’s crying and he can’t stop, he’s shaking and there are hands tight on his arms, is it Uncle Vernon, there’s a light shining in his face, Uncle Vernon is pulling him close to his chest, holding him against his chest, is he going to throw him outside, he’ll need a blanket so he doesn’t freeze, he grips the blanket as hard as he can, digging his fingers into the fabric as the arms tighten around him.

“Look at me, Harry. It’s Remus.” 

_Look at me, boy!_

It’s so loud—

He’s being held so hard—

“ _Harry_. You’re here on the couch and I’m right here with you. You’re all right. Voldemort is dead.” 

He’s not in the cupboard. He’s sobbing but he’s not in the cupboard, he’s on Sirius and Remus’s couch and he’s sobbing and—

No, oh, no. He’s clutching Remus’s shirt like a baby and the rough, racking sobs keep scraping their way out of his chest. 

“Shh. You’re all right, Harry. I’m here. You're safe.”

He tries to hold his breath, to stop the sounds shaking his whole body. He can’t do it. He can’t even let go of Remus’s shirt, his hands are stuck clenching the loose fabric. He’s getting tears and snot all over Remus’s shirt, he’s a bad boy, he’s always doing things wrong and that’s why nobody wants him to live with them. Remus’s voice is in his ears but he can’t follow the words, he’s hiccuping and sobbing and his breath is coming too fast and it’s like it’s not even his breath, just something in his body going in and out too fast like it’s running away.

And then Remus is prying Harry’s tear-sticky fingers open and repositioning him, tucking him into his side and wrapping one arm around him and holding him close. Something warm and wet rubs at his face. Harry takes a long hiccuping breath as Remus presses the flannel against one cheek and then the other, then, taking a corner of the nubbly fabric between his fingers, carefully wipes Harry’s eyes. “Blow,” Remus instructs, holding the flannel around Harry’s running nose, and Harry tries to obey, but a fresh stream of tears comes out too, pouring down his cheeks and getting them sticky all over again. 

Remus gives up on the flannel and pulls Harry to his chest once more, holding Harry there with his ear pressed firmly against the deep drum of Remus’s heart. 

“All right, now. Let’s get you back to sleep.”

“No, don’t leave me!” The words come out like the tears did, all by themselves. 

Remus’s hand goes to the back of his head, smooths down his hair. Harry tenses, waiting for Remus to push him away. Remus doesn’t, though. He stays where he is, letting Harry rest against his chest. At last he says quietly, “I know none of us can really grasp the full effect of what Voldemort did to you.” 

It takes Harry a minute to process why Remus is talking about Voldemort. “I wasn’t dreaming about him,” Harry says, and then wishes he hadn’t. 

“What, then?” 

“I—I don't remember, really.” That’s not true, though, and enfolded in Remus’s kindness as he is, Harry finds he can’t bear to lie to him again, not even a white lie. “I just thought I was back on Privet Drive,” he amends. 

Everything is very still, suddenly. As if a radio you hadn’t noticed playing was suddenly switched off. Then Remus lets out a long breath—that’s what was missing; the rise and fall of his chest. Harry darts a look up at him. Remus is gazing down very soberly, and the look on his face is—Harry isn’t sure what it is. 

“Privet Drive,” Remus repeats. His voice is off; dull and sharp at the same time, like a knife from the back of the drawer. 

Harry drops his eyes, feeling hot and ridiculous. He should at least be having nightmares about something justifiably terrifying, something that might possibly excuse his being such a baby. Like trying to escape from Gringott’s, or the Battle in the Department of Mysteries, or dying in the Forbidden Forest, or—

"Christ," Remus says, rubbing his hand over his face. "Oh god, what a mess," he whispers into his hand. Harry starts to pull back but Remus holds tight to Harry with both arms. "No, not you, Harry. Never you, sweet boy," Remus says, his voice tipping over that knife edge, cracking. 

Harry feels Remus's fingers in his hair again, soft scratches against his scalp. He snuggles closer into Remus's chest. Remus doesn't say anything else except a whispered spell to Summon the ottoman closer to the couch and another to light a fire in the grate. Harry's eyes, so tired from crying, start to itch from trying to keep them open. Eyes closed, ear pressed to Remus's chest to hear his steady breaths in time with his stroking hands, Harry falls asleep.

~o~

Waking is like drifting down into someone else’s lovely Pensieve memory. Harry isn’t sure where he is, but it’s somewhere good—delightfully warm, nestled against something soft-firm whose scent says sleep and sweat. Says _safe._ Harry burrows in closer, luxuriating in the feeling, and breathes warm cotton, the fabric catching on the stubble of his jaw and sending a wave of delicious shivers over his skin in soft electric pulses. His bare feet are against someone else’s bare calves, the hair curling against his toes, tickling his toes—

He comes fully awake and sits up, blinking at his surroundings. He’s in a bed in the middle of the living room and Remus is asleep beside him, one arm crooked around the pillow Harry was just lying on. He blinks down at Remus, the memory of last night returning in a hot flush of shame. Crying like a baby in Remus’s arms. And yet Remus is still here, isn’t he? Beneath his head is a pillow in a blue-grey pillowcase that Harry recognizes from the double bed in the other room. Remus transfigured the couch and slept right here beside Harry, comforting him until he fell asleep. 

There are tears in his eyes suddenly; he wipes them away. He can’t cry now; he can’t wake Remus because this can’t be over yet. He _needs_ this. 

Remus’s mouth is slightly open, his hair tousled on the pillow. Except for the rise and fall of his chest, he’s absolutely still. Harry pulls his pyjama top over his head and carefully, slowly, lies back down, letting his head come to rest where it was a moment ago, letting his toes slide back down under the blankets to touch Remus’s bare calf. He waits a moment, his stomach all fluttery, and when Remus doesn’t stir Harry shifts a centimeter at a time until his naked chest is as close to Remus’s body as he thinks he can press it without waking Remus up. 

Snuggled once more into Remus' safe embrace, Harry considers last night. It's embarrassing, thinking of himself snot-nosed and crying uncontrollably. But there's a warm flush to that embarrassment, something tantalizing about how small he felt, how cared for. Harry couldn't control himself, and last night, in Remus's arms, he didn't have to. He didn't have to be good or helpful or well-adjusted. 

Harry remembers Remus rubbing the wet flannel gently over his face, helping him blow his nose. He imagines Remus brushing the flannel over his arms and legs in the bath. No tears, only tenderness, all of it focused on Harry. Maybe washing his cock, his arsehole; Harry standing, leaning with one hand on Remus's shoulder while Remus lifts one foot and then the other, helping Harry into his pants. 

Harry is breathing hard, almost panting, at the thought of having Remus care for him, every little thing taken care of, being cooed over and petted and stroked. Loved by both of them. His cock is so hard. He wants to nudge Remus awake, he wants it to be okay, for Remus to look at him practically gagging for a hand job with the same expression he had last night as he was wiping Harry's tears. Like he's a small beloved thing, like taking care of him is precious and desirable. 

Harry tilts his head up and sees with a start that Remus has woken up some time during Harry's fantasizing. He's lying completely still and staring up at the ceiling, his only acknowledgement of Harry's gaze a quick flick of his eyes and then back again at the ceiling. And Harry knows, reasonably, it's probably the guilty machinations of a man whose boggart is the moon, but it feels like Remus won't look at him, like Aunt Marge, too disgusted to even acknowledge Harry's presence. And Harry knows it's playing dirty when he says in a small pitiful voice, "Please don't leave me," but why can't Harry have this? After everything? Why can't he have the love he wants?

Harry scoots even closer to Remus, nuzzling his head into the crook of Remus's shoulder. Remus has gone rigid beside him. "Please, I want it," he says, hoping Remus knows what ‘it’ is. “It’s okay, Remus. Just touch me.”

Harry starts to scoot his hips closer, delirious with just asking for it, but Remus puts a strong hand on Harry's hip, stopping him. He breathes out slowly. "Wait. Harry— just—this isn't—"

“Yes it is,” Harry says. He feels breathless, small. He takes Remus’s hand, and Remus’s hand is so big, bigger than his, and before Remus can pull away he pulls the hand around to his bare back, presses it against his spine. Remus’s hand lies there, utterly still yet somehow intensely full of the possibility of movement. 

“Rub my back,” Harry says. He doesn’t say please this time. 

Remus draws a sharp breath like he’s going to object, but then Harry feels that big hand begin to rub slow circles over the knobs of his spine. Up to his neck, then down again to the center of his back. Harry closes his eyes. Whatever ‘it’ is, this is definitely part of it: to lie here while Remus’s hand ranges over him, giving him pleasure. It’s making his breath speed up, it’s making him hard. If Remus knows that, will he stop? Harry doesn’t want him to stop. Harry wants him to see and not stop, to let it be okay. He rolls over, slowly, and Remus’s hand slides across his side, across his middle, Harry on his back and Remus’s hand on his bare stomach, on the soft hair between his navel and the drawstring waist of his pyjamas. His erection is poking the fabric. Harry steals a glance up at Remus. Remus’s eyes are closed, his face taut with something Harry can’t quite read. It’s the face Remus makes when he’s reading a book he likes—concentrating and lost all at once. Harry needs Remus to open his pyjamas, slide his hand inside and caress him there too, maybe wash him all over with the flannel. His hips jerk, and Remus’s eyes fly open, his hand freezing mid-caress. 

"I can't," he says quietly, and starts to move his hand away, but Harry grips it tight. "I can’t,” Remus repeats. “Do you understand that, Harry?" 

Harry presses Remus’s hand hard against his belly. Why exactly does Remus think he can't, when Harry wants him to so badly? Harry has never been able to follow Remus's peculiar moral compass, needle spinning this way and that. Remus who will sustain an endangering lie for months, and then leave the school the morning after no one has gotten hurt. He doesn't want Remus to leave him now, not again.

"Why?" Harry asks, whining a little, leaning into that small childish feeling. 

Remus's hand twitches on Harry's stomach. 

Harry sits up, twisting so he's leaning over Remus, and moves his hands to Remus’s shoulders. His hands look so small on Remus's broader frame. He pets Remus's shoulder, warm through the thin material of his tee shirt. He doesn't know what he's doing except that he has to keep Remus here, has to get him to understand that Harry needs him. 

"Harry, leave it, please," Remus says, his voice thin and stretched, as his hands find Harry's, encircling his wrists. Harry's not sure if Remus is holding him there or pushing him away, but he's so warm and Harry just wants that feeling from last night back, when Remus held Harry so close, arms strong around him. He drops his head and shoulders down, laying his head on Remus’s chest. Remus doesn't push him away, so Harry wiggles closer. He's careful not to brush his hips and hard-on against Remus, shifting instead to bring one knee up. He slides his leg up over Remus's, brushing back and forth against the soft bristle of hair on Remus's thigh, just rocking himself, just getting comfortable. Remus's hands tighten on his wrists and Harry gasps, leg twitching up over Remus's groin. Remus lets go of Harry as if scalded, and, pushing him away, he jumps out of bed in one fluid motion and runs down the hall and into the bathroom. 

Harry stares at the closed bathroom door, panting and bereft and almost positive Remus had been hard. 

~o~

Harry dirties every bowl and spoon and whisk making Black Forest cake from scratch. He’s already made the roast, with lots of carrots and potatoes nestled around it, and he would have made a fresh green salad too but Remus is out in the garden, presumably tilling his guilt away, and Harry is not going out there. He's going to whip the cream and spread it over the dark chocolate cake. Swirl it with sour cherry jam, and take a swig or two of kirsch. 

And then Remus will come inside and Sirius will come home and they'll be so pleased at the feast Harry's made. They’ll eat dinner and everything will be fine again. Harry licks a little sour cherry jam off his thumb, thinking how lovely it would be to lick it off Remus's thumb, maybe tucked up in Sirius's lap, being fed sweet bits of cake and cream and jam, all three of them together. 

He’s halfway through his glass of kirsch when the front door slams open and Sirius shouts, "What smells so good?" bumping with his bag down the hallway and into the kitchen. "Harry!" he says, tucking Harry into a one-armed hug.

"What's all this?” His eyes sweep over the counter, skimming past the heaps of dirty bowls and pots to the tray with the roast in it, perfectly browned and glistening beneath its warming charm. “A roast too?" Sirius's face lights up. "And what's up with the Transfigured couch? Did you have a date?" he teases. 

"Um, I had a nightmare. A really bad one. So Remus slept out there next to me," Harry says, trying to sound honest. 

Sirius's joyful expression turns stormy and he drops his bag in the middle of the kitchen floor. "Remus!" he shouts, heading for the bedroom. "Where the bloody hell are you?" 

Harry can hear the bedroom door hit the wall as Sirius flings it open, and then Sirius comes marching back into the kitchen, anger sparking off him like out-of-control magic as he passes Harry without a glance and goes straight out the back door. 

Harry feels as if he’s been smacked. Through the window he can see Sirius at the far end of the garden, gesticulating in the air, and Remus rising up off his knees, trowel in hand, gripping Sirius’s arm to calm him. Sirius shakes him off, his voice rising so that Harry can hear the precise explosive fury of every word: 

“Because I will _not_ be accused of something I haven’t done. _Especially_ not by you, Remus—”

Remus pushes past Sirius, his long legs carrying him back toward the house so fast he’s nearly flying. Harry darts into the walk-in pantry, instinct taking over and telling him to get out of the way. Remus whisks through the kitchen into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him just as Sirius flings open the back door, his face taut with fury. He shouts an _Alohomora_ at the bedroom door and strides inside, slamming the door so hard the windows rattle. 

Harry slips his wand out of his jeans and aims it at the bedroom door. When the silencing charm comes from the other side, he’s ready for it, the charm meeting his _Diffindo_ and spiderwebbing like cracked ice. Now the words of their argument reach him sporadically, like a radio broadcast whose signal cuts in and out. 

_Sirius, you have a responsibility..._

_...again. Godric’s fucking balls, Moony, you are such a hypocrite..._

A thump—hand slammed on the dresser, on the wall? And a harsh whisper from Remus, inaudible, angry. 

Sirius answers just as angrily, a low growl Harry strains to hear and can’t. 

And then, loud through a crack in the silencing charm, Remus’s voice clear and sharp: _Because he was humping himself on my leg, that’s why!_

All the blood rushes to Harry’s face. He did that. What’s wrong with him? He’s sick, isn’t he? And selfish, just like Aunt Petunia always said.

_...liked it, did you?_

_Jesus, Padfoot. That is not the..._

_It IS the fucking point._

_...can’t believe you sometimes..._

_...or is it this?_

The sharpness goes out of Sirius's growl, changing to something slower, rougher. 

… _Is this the fucking point?_

_For God’s sake, Sirius._

_...right here? …. your other furry little problem? Not so little now, is it?_

_Stop it…._

Then Harry hears Remus moan, and it hits him: it doesn't matter if Harry made Remus hard or not, it doesn’t matter if Sirius wanted to cuddle him—they have each other. To _hump_ against. They don't need Harry. Even if they felt that way about him, he'll always be on the other side of a closed door. 

Harry stands in the middle of the hallway, arms dangling uselessly by his sides, the moaned mm's and uh's of the end of their argument reaching him as if underwater. They don't want him the way Harry wants them. They don't want him. He squeezes his eyes shut, trembling. A surprised _Ah!_ breaks through the fog, startling him into action. He should go. 

Harry feels underneath the couch that is still a transfigured bed and finds his miniaturized trunk. He removes the shrinking charm, his hand shaking as he casts. His broom is on the back porch, his clothes are all in the cupboard opposite the bathroom. He'll have to check the bathroom. He forces himself to think about the minutiae of packing so he doesn't think about how he doesn't belong here, doesn't belong anywhere really, but his hands are shaking and his eyes are blurry. Harry swipes angrily under his glasses. It's stupid to be upset, he knew this was temporary, he knew he couldn't sleep forever on their living room couch. And here he is blubbering through packing when he could just Summon all his shit and be done with it. 

Harry swipes at his eyes again and then casts a summoning spell. His shoes come barreling in, his toothbrush clangs against the inside of the medicine cabinet before the cabinet pops open and his brush and toothpaste and razor come flying through the air. Everything seems quiet in the wake of Harry's spell, including the abruptly silent bedroom, and Harry frantically shoves everything in his bag as quickly as he can. He has to get out of here before they finish, he just can't stand to see them all sex-flushed and trying to explain to him that everything's fine when they all know it's not.

He's on his feet and heading for the front door when the bedroom door opens but Harry doesn't turn around.

"Harry? What's going on?" Sirius pokes his head around the doorframe.

There's nothing to say. He has to leave, he has to get out of here. 

"Woah, what's with the trunk? What are you doing? Harry!" 

Harry's got his hand on the door knob when Sirius reaches him, shirtless with his jeans hastily pulled on and still half unbuttoned, hair sex-tousled, and the sight makes Harry lousy with misery. "I just— I'm gonna go," Harry says, trying and failing not to let his voice crack.

"What are you on about?" 

"What's happening?" Remus asks, stumbling out of the bedroom, trousers done up, tugging a shirt over his head. Of course he doesn't want Harry to see him any part of his body, not now. 

Harry keeps his hand on the doorknob but Sirius clasps his wrist tightly. "You look awful. You're not going anywhere."

Harry feels awful. He's fucked up and he needs more than it's reasonable to ask anyone to give. He squirms and pulls on his arm, trying to get his wrist free from Sirius, but Sirius tightens his grip. "Let him go, Sirius," Remus says, and Sirius says, "I'm not letting him go anywhere." "No, his wrist, you idiot, that's not helping." "I know what he needs," Sirius says, and Harry tries and tries to just get out of here, just leave, he's so tired of them arguing over him. 

"Let me go!" he shouts finally, losing control, tears leaking out his eyes. "Let me go. I want to go." 

"Shh, Harry," Sirius says, drawing him closer, pulling him in and wrapping his arms tightly around Harry. _Shh, shh_ he says, as Harry pushes and squirms, he's so fucked up, he's too much, he wants too much. 

"It's okay, Harry," Sirius is saying. "It's okay." Harry shudders, Sirius's soft voice and strong arms soothing him despite himself. "That's it," he's says, rubbing Harry's back, up and down, and then, slipping his hand underneath Harry's shirt, on Harry's bare skin. "That's it. That's what you want. It's okay." 

"Sirius," Remus says, his voice a warning.

"No," Sirius says sternly, "It's okay. This is what you want, isn't it Harry? Padfoot knows."

"We shou—" Remus starts, but Sirius cuts him off. 

"I know you have a million and one objections that all pass the test in the black and white morality textbook you like to pretend you have, Remus. But none of them are what Harry needs right now."

Sirius smooths his hand over Harry's head, holding him close to his chest. "You need to be touched, don't you, Harry?"

Harry nods against Sirius' chest. He needs to be touched. He needs it to be Sirius and Remus, and he doesn't know how to explain that it has to be them. 

Harry hears Remus take a sharp breath in. He waits for the scolding, for Remus’s hands to pull Sirius roughly away. But all Remus says is, “Sirius, I was his teacher.”

“You can still be his teacher,” Sirius says soothingly, his voice low and silky and very, very sure. The easy baritone vibrates through Harry’s chest and Harry feels himself melt into the sound of it. Sirius will hold them all together, plucking each of their chords into harmony. 

“I don’t—” Remus begins.

“Yes, Moony, you do,” Sirius says. “You know what he needs. Look at him.”

The slow circles up and down Harry's back start to change, Sirius's hands pausing to knead or grip Harry's ribs, feeling him up. "Look at him, Remus," Sirius repeats, and gently turns Harry around, one hand rucking up his shirt and the other rubbing those slow circles on Harry's belly. The same as Remus had done this morning, only Sirius is thumbing at Harry's hipbones, his breath soft against Harry's neck where his head is ducked down, chin tucked over Harry's shoulder and his gaze trained on Remus. "Precious boy," Sirius says. "Did Remus take care of you while I was gone, hmm?"

Remus swallows. He's looking at Harry now, as if he’s unable to look away. 

Sirius's hand slides lower, the tips of his fingers brushing Harry's waistband. Harry breaks out in shivers, it's so good. 

"Take off your shirt, Remus," Sirius says, low and tempting. Remus's eyes widen, his hands twitch to his shirt hem but he pauses. "Go on," Sirius says. Remus slowly pulls his shirt off, dropping it on the ground and Harry licks his lips, Remus's bare chest only an arm's length away, standing on opposite sides of the small entryway. "What do you think, Harry?" Sirius whispers in his ear, breath hot.

Harry lets out a little whine. 

"I think he wants you to come over here, Moony," Sirius says.

Remus stares at Sirius, expression almost pleading, and Harry feels the same way, Sirius holding them all pinned, expectant. Remus takes a single step forward and then another, coming right up to Harry, fists clenched by his sides until they're not anymore, until his hands are on top of Sirius's hands, both of them fumbling at the button of Harry’s trousers until Sirius huffs a laugh, swatting Remus's hands away. He pops the button free himself, saying, "You take it from here."

Harry is panting. He can feel Remus's breath hot on his cheek, all three of them breathing heavily, the air close. He feels as if this space, the space between their lips is all that exists in the world. Remus’s cheek is against his own, Remus’s lips brushing lightly across his unshaven cheek, and Sirius’s lips are on the fold of his ear, and then the flicker of tongue, the scrape of teeth and Harry is shaking, his knees trembling until he has to lean back hard into Sirius to keep upright. Sirius’s hands stroke over his hip bones, into the divots of his hips as Remus moves his mouth over Harry’s temple into his hairline, tasting him there. 

Harry’s eyes flutter closed. He’s falling into the sensation and it’s like sex if sex were like flying, it’s like falling, but they won’t let him hurt himself, they have him now. Remus’s lips come to rest on Harry's forehead, pressing a long kiss just beside his scar. Fingers move from his hips to the waistband of his pants and it comes to him that the low noise in the background is his own voice, moaning. 

“Precious boy,” Sirius hums against the top of his ear, and then, raising his head: “Moony. Take off his pants.” 

Warm hands touching him, gently tugging the elastic away from his body, the fabric brushing against his hard-on and then he’s naked there, his briefs are being pulled down his thighs, and then Sirius is lifting him up in his arms, right off the ground, and Remus is down on his knees tugging off Harry’s trainers and then his jeans and Sirius is holding him so tightly he can’t do anything but be held, and he’s shaking and he’s hard and then Remus is straightening up again and gazing at Harry. At Harry being hard, at Harry being held by Sirius.

“Lift up your arms, Harry-love.” Sirius tugs Harry’s shirt gently over his head and then his hands are back on Harry’s body, gliding up over his bare ribs. “Like what you see, Moony?” Sirius’s voice is as smooth as silk rope. Drawing Remus in. “He’s so sweet. Look at his little tits.” Sirius thumbs at Harry’s nipples, the pads of his fingers rough-gentle-rough. The twist goes straight to Harry’s cock and he bucks back against Sirius, his cheeks stinging with heat. “You want to play with him, don’t you?” 

Remus groans, palming himself through his trousers. "You're such a shit, Sirius," he says, but he has this lazy look on his face that Harry has never seen before. His hand is still over his cock, moving in a slow rolling motion that Harry wants on his own cock. He whimpers, he doesn’t know how to say it, and Remus’s eyes lock on his. Holding him there to be looked at. Harry gazes back, naked and needy. And this time Remus isn’t looking away, he isn’t disgusted, he isn’t pushing Harry off him. He’s just gazing at Harry with that lazy, hungry, almost-smile, and then his mouth opens and Harry sees his teeth. He feels so small and naked; Remus could kill him if he wanted to, could eat him. But he isn’t going to is he, the light in his eyes is hot-bright with something so precise it’s almost gentle, and—Harry realizes with a shock—it’s something like love. Remus takes his hand off himself and very slowly extends it, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face. Harry is panting, his breath coming too fast, whimpering like he’s going to cry but it isn’t crying, it’s just there’s so much inside him. And it’s going to come out, and it’s so big he doesn’t know how to let it out, but then Remus’s hand comes to rest on Harry’s cock and the touch is like the ground under his feet. He’s falling off his broom into Remus’s arms and Remus says, "It's all right, Harry. I've got you now."

Remus slips his hands around to the backs of Harry's thighs and hefts him up. Harry wraps his legs around Remus’s waist as Remus carries him down the hall. It feels so good to rest his cheek on Remus's shoulder, to not worry about his cock brushing against the warm skin of Remus's stomach. Sirius has a twinkle in his eye walking behind them, catching Harry's eye and stage-whispering, "I know, he's so sexy, right?" Harry blushes and tucks his head into Remus's neck.

Remus sits down on the bed with Harry in his lap, then rolls him onto the bed. They shed what’s left of their clothes and lie on their sides on either side of him, their bare skin flush against his naked body, their cocks bumping against his hips as they press in close. They touch him, his arms, his thighs, his chest, their fingers leaving trails of sensation rippling through him. Sirius plucks at his nipples again, breath hot against the side of his neck, as Remus teases light circles around his groin, tugging gently at his pubic hair and making Harry gasp. He feels so safe between them, enveloped between their chests, broader with age; held under their hands, larger than Harry's own, his skinny body so slight beside theirs. 

“He likes that,” Sirius says, the voice somewhere far above him even as Sirius’s body is so close, the heat of his bare chest warming Harry’s face as he lies tucked between them. 

Remus’s fingers touch Harry’s forehead, smoothing back the hair, and then his big hand is cupping Harry’s cheek. 

“He should have everything he likes,” Remus says. “We—Oh, Harry.” Remus’s voice shakes suddenly, like the branches of a great tree in the wind. 

Remus knows, Harry realizes. Maybe he knows all of it. He doesn’t have to explain anymore, or even ask. He doesn’t have to talk. All he has to do is be this, a body between them, receiving their murmuring in his ears, the touch of their hands all over. He’s so hard. His balls are tight and aching against his body, and he wonders if he’s allowed to reach for himself, but he doesn’t have to ask for that either. Sirius’s fingers slip between his legs, cradling his balls gently in cool hands.

“Baby,” Remus says. “You were only a baby.”

Harry starts to cry. But he isn’t sad, or if he is it’s a sadness that isn’t something separate from himself. Remus’s hand is so gentle on Harry’s cheek. “We’re going to give you everything you want,” Remus continues, his voice steady again. Holding Harry just there. “Everything for you, sweet boy.” 

Sirius leans over him, tonguing Harry’s tears as fast as they leave his eyes, and that’s Sirius's hand on his cock now. Harry whimpers and bucks, those long fingers sliding around his cock and stroking, but tenderly, playing with him the way Harry might play with himself for comfort. 

Remus starts rocking him in time with Sirius's hand. Harry is swaying, almost woozy with it. Remus whispers, "That's it, sweet boy."

Harry blinks up at them, his eyes moving back and forth between their faces as they gaze down at him, their eyes so full with seeing him. He reaches out to touch Remus’s chin, his fingers coming to rest against Remus’s mouth. Remus kisses his fingers, lets Harry keep them there between his lips. 

He feels loved, fresh tears trickling from his eyes at the feeling, the simple fullness of it astonishing. 

“Such a good boy,” Sirius murmurs, his hand spell-slick on Harry’s cock now. “Always such a good boy for us. Our boy. Our precious boy.” 

Remus thumbs his cheeks and tells him too, that he's precious, he’s theirs. 

He belongs. To them. The deep, almost aching pleasure of it builds inside him, in his belly and the root of his cock. Remus and Sirius are gazing down at him with such love that he can’t even shut his eyes like he usually does when he gets close; it’s their eyes on him just as much as their hands that bring him to the edge and then his orgasm thrums through him like heartbeats and they watch him come. The pulse of his cock and the pulse of his cries: he is alive, blood rushing through his veins, breath rushing into his lungs as his cock spurts and then, his belly splattered with white, they gather him up and hold him, sticky-wet against their hot bare skin. 

For a long time there’s only this. Skin. Heat. Heartbeat and the feel of breathing. Harry opens his eyes, realizing they were shut. Did he fall asleep? The room is dark now and beside him, Sirius is shifting, turning and then, oh, no—he’s moving away from Harry, his feet landing on the floor with a soft thud, he’s walking away.

Before he can stop himself, Harry cries out. 

“Just going to pee,” Sirius calls over his shoulder, but a shiver runs down Harry's cold back. Remus calls out to him to bring back a flannel and suddenly Harry is shaking. They'll clean him up and then it will be over, it will be over and Harry can't stand the thought. His teeth start chattering. He tells himself not to be a baby about this, he can get up from their bed, it's not a big deal. He'll get cleaned up and they'll eat dinner. 

"Are you cold, Harry?" Remus asks, pulling the corner of the quilt as far as it reaches over his shoulder.

Harry means to say, no, he's fine, but what comes out, breathless and pitiful is, "Was it okay?" 

"Oh, Harry," Remus says, gathering him up in his arms, pulling Harry close just like he did last night. "It was. It was really okay. I promise." He runs his fingers through the hair at Harry's temple. "Padfoot?" he calls out. 

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" Sirius makes a show of being harried, tucking himself back into his pants as he comes back into the bedroom. "Oh bugger—forgot the flannel," he says, turning around again. 

"Skip it. Come back to bed."

"Two seconds," Sirius shouts over his shoulder. After a moment Harry can hear the sound of the faucet, full blast. 

"Would you just come back to bed and tell Harry you love him to bits, please?" Remus calls, exasperated. 

"Of course I love him to bits," Sirius shouts back. "In two seconds I can love him to bits with a warm flannel instead of letting everyone dry in cold come." 

"Just get your wand and come here!"

"You were the one who said to get a flannel!"

Harry laughs shakily into Remus' shoulder, soothed by their bickering and the easy way they talk about him. He still feels uncertain but Remus is right here, arms around Harry, and now Sirius is coming back with the wet flannel to wash Harry, take care of him. 

"Finally," Remus says as Sirius climbs back onto the bed and kneels at Remus's shoulder, looking down at Harry with unmistakable love in his eyes. "Give us a wand."

"Christ, Remus, we're having a moment." 

"Yes, but we could all have a moment with that cake Harry made."

"I want cake," Harry says. His words come out thick, honey slow.

“Dessert first,” Sirius agrees, reaching across Remus, his long hair falling forward and tickling Harry's nose and cheeks as he rummages on the bedside table for his wand. 

Sirius Summons the cake with a grand flourish and they all watch the doorway as the cake comes softly bobbing along, three tiers of rich chocolate cake, whipped cream, and swirls of sour cherry jam spiked with kirsch. 

Sirius lets the cake hover in midair beside them while he gets comfortable, settling against the headboard next to Remus and pulling Harry's legs over his own. 

"You forgot spoons," Remus says.

"No I didn't," Sirius says, swiping his finger through some whipped cream and popping it into his mouth. 

Remus smiles at him fondly. "It has been that sort of day," he says, carefully pinching off a piece of cake and bringing it to Harry's lips. 

Harry looks up at him, needing to ask one more time, to see if it's okay, because how can Harry be allowed to have everything he wants? 

Remus nods at him. "Go on." 

Harry leans forward just a little, his mouth open and Remus feeds Harry the cake, lingering so Harry can kiss and lick the crumbs from his fingertips. He feels so small and beloved, the taste of chocolate heavy on his tongue, the cream light and sweet, tart cherry making his mouth water. He smiles up at Remus shyly and opens his mouth for another piece, knowing he can have one. 

His mouth is pleasantly sticky and there’s a warm wetness against his cheek: Sirius is wiping his face clean with the flannel. Then Remus draws back the covers and Sirius cleans Harry’s stomach as well, rubbing away the dried spunk. The cloth is warm and Remus is warm behind him and Sirius’s hands are so gentle that Harry doesn’t feel embarrassed. He just feels...attended to. He’s being _tended_ , like a new garden or a delicate dessert. Before the clean damp of his belly can feel cold, Sirius pulls the bedclothes up around him again.

“Will you...will you…” Will you come back to bed, Harry wants to say, but words feel so far away. Yet Sirius seems to understand, for he says, “in just a tick, Harry. Help me out here, Remus.” 

Harry watches as both Sirius and Remus point their wands at the bedroom door. Immediately there’s a loud unpleasant scraping sound from the hall, as if a massive piece of furniture were being dragged across the room, and then something bumps against the bedroom doorframe. 

Harry sits up a little. It’s his trunk, he realizes, Summoned into the bedroom. A thin trickle of fear rises in his chest at the sight of it, but then he understands. At a flick of Sirius’s wand, the trunk lid flies open and Harry’s clothes toss themselves up in the air where they hover a moment before dropping into a heap all over the armchair that stands beside the bedroom window. Remus points his wand at the trunk and Harry’s broom kit and a few quidditch magazines fly up next and sail right out of the room, landing—judging by the rustle and thump—on the living room coffee table. Sirius points his wand at the trunk again and Harry’s toothbrush and razor pop out and, quick as a pair of snitches, skim out the door. After a moment he hears them clatter onto the bathroom sink. 

Remus murmurs two more spells and the lid of the empty trunk clicks closed as it trundles across the bedroom floor, coming to rest just under the window, beside the armchair. 

“That’d make a right proper end table,” Sirius says, and finally slides back into bed, sandwiching Harry in place between them.

Warm and sated, the phrase _cat that got the cream_ drifts into Harry's mind. Snuggling into Remus and Sirius, he thinks about cream and being roughly whisked around his whole life, a beating that felt never-ending. Only to end up here, between these two men. Warm and deep. Sharp and bittersweet. Chocolate and cherries and Harry. 

  
  



End file.
